


Phantom Pains

by skepticalshoulderpads



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Phone Sex, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skepticalshoulderpads/pseuds/skepticalshoulderpads
Summary: Scully misses Mulder.





	Phantom Pains

It takes three days for Scully to notice.

Mulder’s presence is so constant, so overbearing in her life, that it’s almost become like white noise. The way they lean into each other to talk, his hand on the small of her back, the entire conversations held in just a shared glance - it’s all so commonplace that she’s forgotten to notice. Until now. She’s been in San Diego for three days, and she feels Mulder’s absence like a missing limb. With every snide quip from Bill or well-intentioned concern from her mother, she’s been looking to her side, waiting for Mulder’s familiar smirk or a roll of his eyes. It’s automatic, and people are starting to notice. Scully can’t remember when Mulder became so ingrained in her physiology, but now, she can barely remember a time when he wasn’t. She chooses not to think about what that means.

“You seem distracted tonight, Dana,” Bill says, jerking her from her thoughts. “You’re too wrapped up in this X-Files nonsense, Dane. Even when you manage to drag yourself away for a holiday, you’re still not with us. Not really.” If Mulder were here, he’d point out the irony of a man wearing his Navy dress uniform to Christmas dinner scolding her for being too caught up in work. Scully just sighs. She’s had this argument too many times, defended her work to too many people. 

“My work is important to me, Bill,” she says, before adding, carefully: “It makes me happy.” It’s true, mostly. Despite everything that’s happened between her illness, her daughter, Antarctica, Diana… she and Mulder have fallen back into their easy camaraderie. The melancholy that had gripped her not so long ago has thawed, and she’s more content than she’s been in years.

“You could have fooled me,” Bill frowns, shaking his head. “Come on, we’ve all noticed how unhappy you seem every time you visit.” He looks pointedly at Tara, who nods in agreement. “We just want what’s best for you, you know.”

“Maybe I’d seem happier if you had some respect for my career and my choices,” Scully says coolly, downing the rest of her wine. Bill opens his mouth to reply, but changes his mind, and the argument gives way to tense silence. Scully picks at her mashed potatoes, staring down her plate. Scully family holidays were easy, once - before Ahab died, before her abduction and her cancer, before Missy was gunned down in her place. It’s not all her fault. She knows that, logically. But she’s responsible for enough of it, and she’s certainly responsible for the darkness that has crept out of the X-Files and found its way to her family. She swallows her guilt with a forkful of mashed potatoes. She can’t - she won’t go there. Not now, not when she’s just starting to feel centered again. 

“It is so nice to have you both out here,” Tara remarks finally, a little too cheerful, smiling warmly at Maggie and avoiding Scully’s eyes. She’s just considering the odds of escaping dinner with her sanity intact when her phone rings. She’s out of her chair before Bill can formulate a disapproving look, tossing an excuse over her shoulder as she makes a quick exit.

“Scully,” she answers, weak with relief when she hears Mulder’s voice on the other end. His timing is rarely impeccable, but tonight, it feels like divine intervention.

“Hey, Scully, have you ever heard of the Jólakötturinn?” 

“Merry Christmas to you too, Mulder,” she says dryly. “And no, I haven’t. Enlighten me.” These calls drove her crazy, once, back when she’d imagined the X-Files as a temporary assignment, when she’d had no interest in Mulder’s many paranormal fairy tales and urban legends. She still has little interest in folklore, if she’s being honest, but her interest in Mulder has significantly increased, so she’s willing to indulge him. She slips into the guest room, locking the door behind her. For a moment, she feels sixteen again, sneaking away from everyone to talk to her crush.

“Also known as the Yule Cat,” Mulder supplies, and she raises an eyebrow out of sheer habit.

“You’re interrupting my Christmas dinner to tell me about a cat?” she asks, feigning skepticism. She has to give him some resistance, even as she flops down on the bed and settles in for the story. 

“It’s not just any cat, Scully,” Mulder tells her patiently. “The Jólakötturinn eats people.” He pauses for dramatic effect. 

“I highly doubt a cat could eat a human, Mulder,” she says, playing along. 

“Well, this is a big cat. A monster, really. Big enough to devour humans by the dozen.”

“So, who is he eating, then?” 

“Well, around Christmas time, the Jólakötturinn preys upon the Icelandic people. Specifically those who don’t have new clothes,” Mulder says matter-of-factly, and Scully can’t help the laughter that bubbles up. Her earlier gloom is melting away, and she feels fluttery and drunk, the wine from dinner catching up with her.

“So he’s some sort of feline fashion police?” 

“Not exactly. As the legend goes, as fall came to an end, the everyone had to work extra hard to prepare for winter. The ones who completed their work would be rewarded with new clothes for Christmas. The ones who didn’t work hard enough ended up stuck with last season’s threads. So really, the Jólakötturinn targets the lazy,” Mulder explains. She’s only half-listening, her attention captivated more by Mulder’s voice itself than legendary man-eating cats. That’s another thing that’s slipped her memory: how much she likes the sound of his voice. Has it really only been three days since she saw him last? She shifts slightly, sinking into the pillows, and - oh. Her arousal catches her off-guard.

It’s not like she’s never fantasized about him before. He’s attractive, and they spend so much time together, and really, she’s only human. It’s natural. But this - this is different. Dangerous. He’s her partner, her best friend, and getting off to listening to him relay some silly folk tale would be absolutely inappropriate. Her hand trails downward on its own accord.

“How can he tell if the clothes are new or not? And what counts as new, anyway? Does it have to be brand new, or just new to that person?” Scully is as surprised at the steadiness of her voice as she is at her hand finding its way underneath her pants. She bites her lip to suppress a sigh as Mulder laughs.

“You’re overthinking this, Scully,” Mulder chides. “The Jólakötturinn just knows. Just like Santa just knows who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. You haven’t been naughty, have you, Scully?” 

She forces a laugh out as her fingers slip beneath her panties, giving in and gently circling her clit. “Of course not,” she says, hoping her voice isn’t as shaky as it feels. “I’m pretty sure I filled out every single report we turned into Skinner this year, and I’d say that was very nice of me.” 

“Very nice,” Mulder agrees, and it’s almost too much. 

“So this Jólakötturinn is a myth, then, just like Santa.” She needs to steer this conversation somewhere safer, somewhere that will let Mulder do all the talking so she doesn’t give herself away. 

“Scully! You don’t think I’d interrupt your Christmas to tell you about some trivial fairy tale, do you? The Jólakötturinn is very real.” Mulder rises to the challenge of convincing her, as she knew he would, and she begins to touch herself in earnest, imagining it’s his fingers sliding inside of her, that he’s talking her through her orgasm instead of an absurd folk tale. She wonders if he likes to talk dirty in bed. Given his proclivity towards innuendo and how difficult it is to get him to shut up in the office, she’d say the evidence solidly leans towards yes. He’d be creative, too, she thinks. Passionate, to a terrifying degree, just like he is with everything else. 

Propping the phone between her shoulder and her ear, she tugs her sweater up, pinching a nipple through her bra. Would he be rough or gentle? She can’t decide which appeals to her more. She’s never allowed herself to imagine these things, her sense of self-preservation too strong to truly let herself consider how Mulder would fuck her. The sound of his voice, her fingers in her cunt, it’s all too much and not nearly enough. Her body aches for him in a way she didn’t even realize was possible. 

“Scully,” he says, and she comes suddenly, quietly, grinding herself into her palm. “Are you still there?”

“I’m here,” she murmurs, eyes closed as she tries to steady her breath. “I think you’re right, Mulder. There’s strong evidence that the Jólakötturinn is real.” 

“Well, I think I just became a believer in Christmas miracles,” Mulder snorts. “You’re not drunk, are you?” 

“Not drunk,” Scully confirms.

“I guess my work here is done, then. Good night, Scully.” Mulder’s voice is impossibly warm and so rich with affection it takes her breath away. She was skeptical, last year, when he dragged her to the haunted house, but now she’s certain. He’s quietly been doing his best to distract her from the pain the holidays inevitably bring her, and like a switch has been flicked, she realizes that she loves this man.

And, impossibly, she thinks he just might love her back.


End file.
